


A Mastery of A Weakness

by Royalrastafariannaynays



Series: In Name and In Deed [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cannot be read independently from the series, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Family Fluff, Gen, M rating is for violence i like to keep it safe, POV Kankri Vantas, companion fic to In Name and In Deed, depictions of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:52:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royalrastafariannaynays/pseuds/Royalrastafariannaynays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's heaving, eyes burning into you like he can cauterize the wound with his gaze alone. His soul is pulling at yours, trying desperately to hold it back where he can cradle it in his care. </p><p>And you're happy. </p><p>____________</p><p>A collection of memories from Kankri's point of view, highlighting a few different points in his life before and after becoming Karkat's father's dragon companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mastery of A Weakness

**Author's Note:**

> tw: second-person present tense depiction of dying
> 
> A sidefic for my fic In Name and In Deed! It has dragons and riders and davekat, go check it out!

There’s… a blade in your skull.

You can feel it, this time. Karkat is standing there, his arm dripping with your blood.

He's heaving, eyes burning into you like he can cauterize the wound with his gaze alone. His soul is pulling at yours, trying desperately to hold it back where he can cradle it in his care.

And you’re happy.

You can see him, in the flesh. He is strong and healthy.

You give him everything you can.

 

* * *

 

“ _Arrows!_ From below!”

It’s after dusk. They’re not even supposed to be able to see you at this time of day. Intel had been received that this was a clear path. 

But you’ve been expecting to be betrayed for weeks now. It was only really a matter of time. 

A shot of fire bursts from between your lips. A thrill bolts through you as you take out one of the catapults on the ground. _______ throws one of his javelins, and takes an ogre right through his eyes. 

The javelins, strapped to the side of your saddle, clank as you make a sharp turn. Avoiding the projectiles is one thing. Anticipating their frequency is another. But despite your broad wings, you’re a difficult target for them to his. 

They’re trying to get you.

They’re trying to take you out. 

A harpoon misses you with a high keen of metal and strained wood, and you dodge another narrowly. Smoothly, easily, you swipe very slightly upward and past an outcropping of trees. 

You weren’t even carrying a letter when the volleys began to whistle in the air. 

_______ is full of fear and adrenaline. 

Despite your confidence, it’s looking like you won’t survive the encounter. 

A wall of arrows and missiles screams toward you in the air. 

Two other dragons have gone down within your line of sight. 

“I fought with Karkat, the last time I saw him,” _______ mutters. His voice is reedy and desperate. He’s close to tears. 

A note of panic reaches you in your bond. He doesn’t want to die here. 

You can’t ascend any further. The atmosphere above would kill him. 

_He surely forgives you. Adolescents and their parents tend to argue. You are fine._

The ground certainly isn’t an option. 

The only place to go is straight ahead. 

“I’m not going to see him again,” he whispers, and you feel it in your connection. 

_We must focus_ , you insist. 

He will make it out alive. He must. One of you still has a family. 

And he _will_ see them again. 

Below you, there is a field of soldiers. Archers. Catapults. 

They are throwing wide nets that spark with magnets and steel. 

You’re the only ones left in the sky. 

You cannot See any escaping this. But you have been wrong before. Your Sight is not the kind under the Light.

A harpoon guts your wing.

It has proven you correct.

 

* * *

 

It’s a beautiful afternoon. 

Coriander is out hunting, and you’re lying curled atop your clutch. 

Any dragon would be proud to have you as a mate, and she is no exception. 

Though she is a very desirable mate as well. Tall, proud, golden wings and claws, white scales, brassy spines and fire that can spit two hundred feet into the air. Strong and lithe and though she only has two wings, she can fly very quickly in rain or shine. She delivered a nest of ten eggs not a week before, and sprung right back up to go fish for her dinner after bidding you a very heartfelt thanks and goodbye. 

Like most dragons, it’s now your job to stay and breathe on the eggs to keep them cushioned in embers. After all, she carried them until their shells were hardened enough to withstand most weathering. It’s the least you can do. She will return in a day or two with a large sea animal for you.

It took more than thirty years of careful courting and companionship before she agreed to be with you. Compared to the other few hundred years of your life, however, that amount of time was a pittance. Coriander is older than you, as well. It drew out the process for years. 

You’ve nested inside an ancient human temple on the side of a mountain. There was already a pit here, for a nest, with lovely mosaics of dragons and beasts tiling the walls from floor to ceiling. The freshwater spring in the center of the temple still functions properly, and the ceiling is still in one piece. It makes you wonder what happened to the humans living in this place. 

Judging by the scattered pots and bedrolls and the fairly clean condition of the temple, it seems like they left in a hurry, and not too many years ago. But the forest around it is still teeming with life, and the deserted village below the mountain is not so far from the ocean.

It’s not hard to guess why they might have left. 

Most of this region of the world has been scraped down to the bare bones by the man the humans call Lord English. They claim he is older than time, more bitter than the first winter wind. 

But he is just a man. And you are strong. 

He will not take your family from you. 

A small noise comes from the egg under your left foreclaw. It’s a just-barely there, strained noise of recognition. 

Waiting, to check to see if the noise might just have been an errant birdcall from the trees outside, you peer down at the egg. 

The noise happens again. 

There is birdsong in the sky, and wind in the needles of the pine trees, and a tiny sound from one of your eggs. 

Joy ringing in your heart, you reach into the egg with some of your mental feelers.

The bond links almost immediately, and hope rings through your long neck and down to the tip of your tail. The baby in the egg is curious, happy, upset, and a myriad of other vague emotions. It doesn’t know how to feel yet. 

You send it happiness and pride, and are met with confusion.

Humans are so unfortunate to only know each other for such a short time.

 

* * *

 

“Madjem, she’s so _annoying,_ ” a young voice whines. 

Karkat is eleven years old this summer.

“Well, sweetheart, don’t fault her for it. Youngn’s your age aren’t very good at showing their affection yet.”

His mother is chittering her laughter, stirring a wide pot over the hearth. 

“She brought me _flowers_ , madjem.” 

The chittering turns into a few very hearty, full-bellied laughs. 

You open your eyes. 

From the floor, it’s a little hard to see anything but feet and the underside of the table.

“Well, small one, you _did_ accept them,” she hums. 

Karkat groans in frustration. When you make a curious noise, he covers his ears and slams his forehad down on the tabletop. 

It makes quite a sound, and you find yourself struggling not to startle. 

One of the potatoes that had been on the table rolls into the tip of your nose. 

Karkat wasn’t done peeling them yet, and here three of them lie on the floor. 

Karkat is growing up slightly gangly. Already he’s only two heads shorter than his mother, and his feet are the size of his father’s. He eats entirely too much, but he needs it. It’s not as if the Vantas family cannot afford the cost of extra food. 

Food is plentiful, in this town, despite the arid conditions. Fish and chicken and vegetables and enchanted fields of farmland that flourish despite all of the sand.

The boy’s head just seems too big for his shoulders, which are already wide enough without it. 

He will be stocky even in his height, just as is his strength of heart

You can See it. Feel it. He carries some of the same magics as his father. He will love fully, whoever he can, for as long as he can. There will be pain, yes. But he will also have his mother for a long time, his friends and his significant others.

Also like his father, the boy’s wild dark hair hides a clever mind, and a soul that could extinguish the most obscuring darkness. 

_______ is in town at the moment. There had been a calling for fresh bread with the stew, and _______ had forgotten to grab some earlier in the day. 

Huffing from where your head sits just inside the door, you prickle the young mind with a thought. 

_Small one, your root vegetables._

Karkat sits straight up, gasping and collecting the fallen tubers from the floor.

“Thanks Kankri,” he says, and glances up. His mother hasn’t turned around yet. The day is saved.

Karkat gets them into the bowl after checking them for damage. They are peeled, with the rest.

The beans smell excellent tonight.

 

* * *

 

It was an unconventional bonding.

_______ had been training for years. His hands were firm on your wings as he felt them several days previous, with your permission. Footsteps light, he stepped around you and discerned your physique. Memorized your lines so that he might better know you in his mind. It was important that he be able to tell you where you would most advantageously move in combat.

If you saw combat. 

It was unlikely.

He was confident, and you were a perfect match.

The war took your mate, and your children. Rather, the Lord English himself took your mate and clutch, wore their canine fangs around his neck and boasted about their… flavor. It was with a heavy, wary, but determined heart that you went to volunteer for the war effort. They needed more dragons for their trained riders. 

You knew this. 

Humans would be instructed and polished for years, decades, sometimes, before they were found capable and matched with a dragon. It has been this way for a long, long time. Of course, the ‘lower class’ humans would be introduced after the higher ones. So the humans with more money would be your more likely bet. 

That would be fine. You did not agree with the method of choosing, but human social politics have nearly always confused you.

The only thing that was especially concerning to you was the idea that you were permitted to fight in the war. The war was all you had, then. It was the only way to make right what was wrong for you. 

And being a vigilante would make you an enemy of both sides. 

There was magical searching, checking on your background, efforts to make sure that you were worthy. 

You sailed through durability tests, combat reviews, and several social reviews to check and see that you were willing to follow orders. Many dragons lacked the necessary humility to fight in the war, they said. 

It didn’t come as a surprise.

And, after all that, you were assigned a messenger role.

This, of course, angered you.

Why were you not good enough for battle? For vengeance? 

They claimed that your magical abilities were not combative enough, and that you were fast and resilient. They needed a new primary messenger, for important messages. For the ones that would determine tides of war. 

This was acceptable. You are a strong dragon. A proud dragon. No less and no more than others, but you felt like your cause was pristine, the best. 

They brought many riders before you. They brought Seers of all kinds and social rank, from nobility to the jailer’s son. The lord viscount’s daughter and his wife were both rejected, the butcher’s cousin and the royal tailor’s sister. 

And then _______ met you. There was a perfect match in your separate arcana.

He was the last to come through, weary and tired from so many years being held back by rank that he was about to head home after a tour and retire. He was younger, in his thirties, and his eyes were drawn. 

You spent a month in each other’s company, found each other to be acceptable, and compatible. There was a bond made. A disbelieving, but incredibly strong, bond. 

In his heart, you could see that he had a few bonds already. But that was alright. With your specific Blood magic, the bonds connected to you, as well, almost instantly. There was no need to summon them or go through with the separate ceremony.

 

* * *

 

_______ has one child, and a wife. His wife has asked you to call her “madjem” or “miss” like her child does. She gives you her name as well, but something in the link between you makes you feel like she doesn't want you to use it. For whatever reason. So you don't.

You balk at the infantilization. You are centuries older than her. How dare she aggrieve you like this? 

“Please, dearest, he’s not very… comfortable with that nickname.”

It’s your rider speaking. ______ is giving her a placating smile, kissing her on the cheek. A small, small child peeks out from behind her skirts. His dark eyes are wide, and you stare back at him.

He has a bandage on one of his hands. 

_______ bends down, holds out his arms. 

The child looks at him for a brief moment, before his eyes are locked back onto you. He is a little fearful of you, and it seems like he’s not wanting to come out yet. 

Something in you creaks like an old house.

“What’s this, karkat? Has my small one gotten himself hurt?” _______ asks. 

“Owch,” the child mumbles. He’s so very young. When you prod his mind, carefully, there are no barriers up. 

Lights and colors and a few words litter the expanse of his thoughts. It’s mostly imagery at this stage. 

It almost painfully reminds you of your hatchlings.

These two… they feel close to you, to your soul. But they are not. 

It aches.

“Miss will be fine. I was just trying to be friendly,” _______’s wife murmurs, eyes glued to her child. 

She looks at you. “I’m genuinely sorry about that. I just prefer more familiarity, with my family.”

The word family struck you, and you feel a wave of contentment pass through you that is echoed by _______.

“What can I call you?” she asks. She is forgiven. Her love is clear here, and her soul is pure. There was no ill intent. 

The child’s aura pulses at you as his mother talks to you. Familiarity. It aches with how it reminds you of your family, long gone. To both the child and mother, you quiet yourself.

A deep echo resounds into their minds. 

_I am kankri._

The child squeaks, loud. 

Almost instantly, the child’s fear is gone. 

With that dam broken, you feel your straightened and sever posture crumble. Your head gets close to the ground, and you flex all four of your wings out before letting them relax to your back. 

From behind the skirts the child comes, toddling out to you awkwardly in his shirt and bare feet.

Unconcerned with the baby nearing you, _Miss_ turns back to _______. 

She trusts you so much. 

It aches at that place in your heart some more. 

“I told him not to, but he touched the chain before it cooled anyway.” There is no remorse in her voice. Children must teach themselves some things, like pain. 

“Dearest, you have to keep him out of the forge.” _______ is scolding. But there is no real anger in it.

“If he doesn’t learn now, he never will. Besides, it wasn’t too hot. He’s not even really burned, the healer checked. The bandage was to make him feel better.”

_______ sighs.

The child is in front of you, now, burbling excitedly.

His chest puffs out.

His light shines so brightly, to you

You lower your nose to him, rest it on the ground. Like you would with your hatchlings. The child slaps a soft hand to your snout. 

You can almost hear his tiny wings unfurling. The little tink of scales, and the tapping of dull baby claws on stone. Tears well up hotly in your eyes. But you cannot cry, you cannot. Dragon tears are not kind to human skin.

_______ protests, briefly, but when you puff out a warm breath on the baby, and he giggles happily, _______ shuts his mouth with a snap. 

You’ve always loved children. 

The child runs his little hands all over your nose, touches the sharp ridge around your eyes, feels your facial fans and the crusted edge of your lower lip.

 _His_ name is Karkat?

“Yes, Kankri,” _______ murmurs. With the recent bond, he’s not accustomed to speaking telepathically yet. 

_He is a beautiful child_ , you reply. The baby is feeling the fangs that protrude from your lips. The bandage feels odd on your tongue when you lick his arm. The dark swath of hair on Karkat’s head tickles the inside of your nostrils, as he bends deep to inspect your jaw. 

_He will grow up good, and strong_ , you tell them both. _Madjem_ gasps at the words, and holds a hand to her chest. _______ laughs. She swats his shoulder, kisses his cheek. 

“Kanny!” the baby says.

The power of the exclamation sends him falling over onto his backside, and he looks surprised for a moment before sniffling wetly. 

Human babies like to cry when they fall, don’t they?

So you puff another warm breath at him. 

A too-familiar croon passes from between your lips at the same time. 

The baby startles, and then coos some more. 

“Well, that was the second word he’s learned,” _Madjem_ sighs.

“He learned Kankri’s name before either of ours?!” _______ asks, aghast. 

He looks almost angry, were it not for the plain-faced relief currently washing away all his other emotions. He was skeptical that you would like his family, or that they wouldn’t like you. 

It would be safe to say that Karkat recognized your voice from the bonding ceremony. It’s also safe to say that he was more likely to be unafraid of you for the same reason.

 _Madjem_ grins at your rider. _______ gazes back at her. 

You have been placed into a loving family.

It still aches you, but now there is warmth. Warmth in your belly and heart. Filling the gap.

 

* * *

 

Karkat’s face wrenches in front of you. You can finally see him, with your own two eyes.

He’s grown up so well. Just like you thought. 

He looks just like _______.

The scar is vicious between his eyes, but his brow is gentle, like his mother’s.

His eyes are bloodshot, filling with tears.

He’s done as you asked.

He’s fading from your view. Everything is fading, now. From the edges and going in.

At the last possible second, his mouth quirks in the smallest smile. Pained, screeching pain. But a smile nonetheless. 

He knows that it’s you.

And you send him your last bit of warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> hey all! I ended up not wanting karkat's dad or mom to have a proper first name for aesthetic reasons, so 
> 
> had a really long work day friday and didn't get much done this weekend so the epilogue will be out soon, and then that's the end! 
> 
> hope everyone had a great ride and a wonderful time. see y'all later this week!


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